


Gilded in Gold

by JohnnysFrenchPress (CoffeeColoredMornings)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Exes, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, there is some discernible tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeColoredMornings/pseuds/JohnnysFrenchPress
Summary: It's been eight years since Taeyong has last been home. Upon his return for Christmas, he finds very little has changed.The town is blanketed in layers of white and crystalline ice, his family is abustle in their bakery, the town square is a flurry of non-stop activity in preparation for the grand tree lighting, and everyone still coos his name upon sight. And yet, Taeyong finds himself struck silent when coming face to face with his past over an order of a dozen snickerdoodle cookies.Johnny Seo. Taeyong's best friend, his first lover, his first everything. And maybe, just maybe, some things have changed.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97
Collections: Under The Mistletoe





	Gilded in Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for Orion2900's Under the Mistletoe Fic Fest~
> 
> Prompt: JN and TY are high school sweethearts, sadly break up at the end of it. After x amount of years when they both already have gone trough uni and have a job elsewhere etc they decide to go home for Christmas and they coincidentally meet again.
> 
> Happy Holidays to everyone~ I hope this doesn't disappoint and brings some warm, fuzzy feelings to your end of the year~!
> 
> (Also, I live in a hot place and have no idea how snow works, so apologies for any inaccuracies, but if someone wants to ask Santa to give me snow, I'll love you forever~!)

The is air is sprinkled with the scent of cinnamon and freshly baked goods. Each time the doors open, a blustering winter wind sweeps in with the newest customer, but the endless chatter and holiday cheer never ceases.

It’s funny, Taeyong thinks, as he rings up a dozen mocha crinkle cookies, how nothing has changed in his home town even after being eight years absent. He returns, a newly promoted associate lawyer at a law firm in Busan, and yet the townsfolk still coo adoring endearments at Taeyong—the older women going so far as to pinch his cheeks. At twenty-six, Taeyong still has the humble graces to blush, to wave away the comments of his vitality and good looks.

At twenty-six, Taeyong finally returns home, and nothing has changed. He’s back at work at his parents’ bakery—flour and sugar-dusted apron, wide smile on display as he takes orders as quickly as the snow falls outside.

The bell over the front door rings, but the bakery is so busy, few turn to pay attention to the newcomer. Taeyong doesn’t notice the new customer until he is in front of the register, and when he looks up, he sees his past staring back.

Johnny is as tall as ever, broader, a clear gain in muscles opposite to his once gangly form. His hair is long now, dyed a buttery blond and half tied up in a messy topknot. His eyes are the same, even widened in shock, they carry the same swirl of cinnamon sprinkled terracotta.

Neither of them speaks. They just stare; Johnny’s mouth slightly parted with his order long forgotten.

“Taeyong,” Johnny says, the other’s name nothing more than a soft breath in the sudden space of surprise between them. “Y-you’re here?”

Taeyong giggles, not a cute jingle of sound, but a discordant crash of vocal chords. “Yes,” he says, awkward. He fingers the edge of the iPad, the menu screen long forgotten as he takes in Johnny and Johnny takes him in return.

Johnny opens his mouth to say something, but Taeyong interrupts, “Finally got promoted at work, so I figured I’d come home for Christmas. So, here I am.” He smiles, tight and controlled. “Do you know what you want to order?”

Johnny shakes himself, a visible jolt of his body, and looks down at his phone with furrowed brows. “Uh, yeah, picking up an order for my mom. A dozen snickerdoodles, half a blondie pie, a brown sheet, and two gallons of hot chocolate.”

“I’ll go check the order in the back,” Taeyong says. He pauses, the desire to say more sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he leaves.

His exit is more of a flee, shoulders rounding in as he scurries into the kitchen. The kitchen is a flurry of activity, gleaming steel tables dusting with flours and dough, tall cooling racks chock full of pastries just begging to be devoured. The whir of the oven and the mixing stand is a nice distraction for the tumble of thoughts in Taeyong’s mind.

“Mark,” Taeyong shouts for his younger brother.

Mark pops up behind a stack of packed pies, a dusting of flour across his cheek. “Wassup?”

“Do we have Mrs. Seo’s order ready?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mark says, checking the orders on the to-go stand. “Just need to pour the hot chocolate.”

“I can do that,” Taeyong says, already walking over to retrieve their gallon jugs. “Can you run everything out?”

“Oh, Mrs. Seo’s here?”

Taeyong scrapes the ladle through the large pot of simmering hot chocolate. He hums, noncommittal, and pours two gallons worth of hot chocolate.

Taeyong pretends not to see the squinting stare Mark lays on him. “Go.” Taeyong pushes the gallons of hot chocolate in Mark’s hands. Mark grunts under the weight of the order, and Taeyong, under any other circumstances, would take half of the burden, would be glad to help deliver the order to the customer, maybe even walk everything out to their car.

The circumstances are not normal, though. So Mark struggles out of the kitchen doors, and Taeyong stays back, tucked into the corner by the stove and stirring hot chocolate past the point of agitation.

Johnny Seo. Taeyong's best friend, his first lover, his first everything. The words escape him, though he wants to speak them; the desire to speak to Johnny is tangible. But what could Taeyong say after eight years of near silence? What could he say to the man once so paramount in his life and now just a ghost sometimes seen on social media?

_ Sorry, we broke up. You look good. What have you been up to? _

Maybe, just maybe, some things have changed.

* * *

The town square is a mess as it always is this time of year. December 23 heralds a flurry of activity; snow lays in a blanket a few feet thick, the rough-hewn stone footpaths are shoveled clear, each storefront in the square is decked out in dazzling displays of lights and festive decorations.

Mrs. Seo, the town’s long-standing event coordinator, has seen every tree ringed in string lights, every gazebo wrapped in garland and tinsel, mistletoe secreted in doorways, and the numerous holiday displays positioned tastefully throughout the square.

“Taeyong-ah,” Taeyong’s mom trills through their shop, for once blissfully slow. “Did you run those hot americanos out to the folks setting up the winter castle display?”

“Yes, eomma.”

“Good, good. Do me another favor?” Taeyong’s mom walks out from the kitchen, Mark in tow, both holding an armful of cup carries. “Help your brother carry these lattes out to the folk setting up Santa’s workshop?”

Taeyong nods, allowing his mom to load him up with carriers full of steaming lattes. He’s long learned his mom’s favors are less requests and more commands.

Mark is equally burdened with cardboard carriers and lattes, and together they shoulder out of the bakery. The cold hits them both like a solid wall, freshly fallen snow crunching beneath their feet.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d still be running coffee with a law degree,” Mark says, breath plumming out in wispy clouds.

Taeyong barks out a laugh, resisting the urge to shoulder bump Mark if only to preserve the coffee in his grasp. “What do you think I did for the entirety of my internship at the law firm?”

“Damn, really?” Mark shakes his head, chocolate brown hair just past the point of overgrown. “That’s whack. But, like, how did you get hired then?”

“How do you think?” A small smirk plays at the edges of Taeyong’s quickly chapping lips.

Mark stops and stares, a darkening expression of horror contorting his face into wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “Dude, like, wait...are you serious right now?”

Taeyong doesn’t say anything for a moment, face carefully blank as he lets Mark stew in his own thoughts. He lasts less than a minute before he’s cracking up, and Mark is whining at his side.

“I did minor work with a few cases and impressed the right people with my work ethic,” Taeyong says, urging them both to keep walking to the Santa’s workshop display. “You know, I thought college would help you grasp sarcasm better, but I think you’ve gotten worse.”

“Hyung,” Mark whines, but he trails behind Taeyong, wide smile in place. “Donghyuck and Jaemin keep trying, you know? But, it’s so hard to tell, like everyone keeps such a straight face.”

“That’s part of the humor,” Taeyong says.

Mark grumbles but holds his tongue as they come to a stop before the volunteers working on what’s supposed to be Santa’s workshop. The display, usually intricate 3-D woodwork masterpieces with crafty animatronics is currently more or less a heap of colored wood.

“Um,” Mark clears his throat, “We’ve got some lattes for everyone.”

“Oh, thank God,” Mr. Jeon says. “Taeyong-ah, good to see you!” He grabs a cup from Taeyong’s carrier.

“How, uh, how’s the display going?” It’s a moot question—the display resembles trash day after Christmas—but Taeyong asks anyway, trying to make conversation with the old high school woodshop teacher.

“Not too well,” Mr. Jeon sighs, gesturing at the display. “Some of the pieces broke when bringing them over, so we’ve been having a field day trying to find decent substitutes.”

“Oh,” Taeyong says. He winces and shuffles awkwardly. The cardboard carries are empty and the cold is settling bone-deep, the thin windbreak barely doing anything to keep the chill at bay. “I—I wish there was some way to help.

Regret is familiar to Taeyong, he’s tasted it before, and as Mr. Jeon’s eyes light up, he feels the tale-tell bitterness creeping across his tongue.

“I hate to take you away from your mom, but we could really use your help.”

“Our mom won’t mind, she has me, so Taeyong can help,” Mark chirps.

Taeyong bites back a scathing remark but doesn’t hold back his glare as Mark takes the empty cup carriers from him. Mark smiles, all giddy youthfulness, then books it, leaving only a trail of footprints in the snow.

Left with Mr. Jeon and the dozen other volunteers, Taeyong tries for a convincing smile. “Thanks, son,” Mr. Jeon braces his hand on Taeyong’s shoulder, “Now we should have some extra decorations in the basement of townhall—it should be unlocked since we’ve been going in and out all day, but try to round up as much as you can. You’ve seen the display before, right?” Taeyong nods, he had seen the display for eighteen years straight, he knows it well enough, even without having seen it recently. “Good, good,” Mr. Jeon says, “Now, there should be some carts down there from earlier, so load up what you can, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Taeyong says, ever polite, and allows Mr. Jeon to steer him towards the town hall.

* * *

The town hall has changed. Gone is the forest green carpet and faded tapestries of Taeyong’s youth. The building clearly has been updated within the past eight years, and Taeyong can vaguely recall his mom telling him about the renovations years ago. The tile is a modern gray, bulletin boards vibrant and organized, tapestries new and well-ironed.

The lingering smell of patchouli and dust remains though; the scent follows Taeyong down hallways and the staircase and to the basement. The door is slightly ajar and Taeyong slips in. This, too, is familiar. Taeyong had spent many days running through town hall, following the tugging hand of Johnny as his mom worked.

The basement door shuts softly behind him, and Taeyong breathes, shakes out the ghosts of his past.  _ It’s no use _ , he tells himself—a familiar mantra,  _ it’s no use focusing on things that were and that cannot be changed. _

He pushes forward, past dimly light collections of broken chairs and aged decorations, past the towers of archived documents tucked neatly into moldy boxes. The Christmas decorations are usually always in the back, tucked into the left side of the room, so that’s where Taeyong goes. And, that is where the noise comes from.

A muffled scrape, something heavy against the concrete of the basement floor. Then, a grunt.

Taeyong rounds a pile of dilapidated desks just in time to hear, “Fuck you, Santa!”

“Johnny?” The other man stands in a warzone of Christmas paraphernalia. His outer garments long shed, leaving him in nothing but blue jeans and a fitted black sweater. Taeyong tries not to stare, but the sight is hard to look away from— _ Johnny  _ is hard to look away from.

“Taeyong?” Johnny looks up, a huge plastic Santa cradled in his arms. “What are you doing down here?”

“Mr. Jeon,” Taeyong says, and Johnny nods, a mirthless chuckle slipping out as he drops Santa.

“He got to you, too?”

“Yeah.” Taeyong doesn’t take a step closer. Can’t quite find a path he’s willing to take through the merry rubble. “He didn’t—he didn’t mention he also sent you down here.”

“Probably part of his tactic. My mom kinda chewed the poor guy out, so I think he’s desperate.” Johnny shrugs a bit awkwardly, a small pout pulling at his lips. “Hey, can you help me with this Santa? I’m trying to get him on the cart, but I think he indulged in too many cookies.”

The joke isn’t funny, but Taeyong laughs, clear and ringing and startling them both. Johnny grins, absurdly proud and smug. “You laugh the same.”

Taeyong falters in his step. He swallows and feels the constriction of his throat. “What do you mean?”

They both bend down, Johnny grabbing Santa’s head and Taeyong grabbing his feet. The plastic is waxy and grimy against Taeyong’s hands.

“You’ve always had the most distinctive laugh. My mom used to say it’s a Lee thing; you can find a Lee in a crowd of people by their laugh alone. But your laugh,” Johnny shakes his head and smiles; they edge Santa onto the cart, “I’ve heard it so many times, and it’s like—I don’t know—like you give each sound a distinctive chance to live.”

“Oh.” Taeyong pulls back and looks down, away. His stomach is full of ice shards. Johnny passes him by, loading up another box of faux toys onto the cart.

Johnny moves easily, almost as easily as he speaks. His expression is relaxed, eyes gentle and lips curved just so. Taeyong’s stomach clenches with envy, frustration bubbling fiercely within his gut.

_ This should be easy _ , he thinks.  _ We’ve known each other for so long, been through so much. This should be like slipping back into well-worn clothes. _ But it’s not. He carries multicolored lights and festive accoutrements to the cart, all the while the air between them tugs harshly in his lungs.

Their break up is not something Taeyong likes to think about. It was mutual—well, Johnny had brought it up, mid-summer before Taeyong left for university. But Taeyong had understood, the same worries of long-distance and the uncertainty of the future gnawed at his gut late at night. 

Taeyong was going to university in Busan, Johnny was taking a gap year to work. Taeyong wanted to go into law, Johnny didn’t know what he wanted.

Johnny broached the subject of them taking a break, and Taeyong understood. He had thought himself mature at eighteen, saw the forethought in the decision, but not the permanence—taking a break turning into breaking up.

Taeyong had agreed, but he still curled into Johnny, still sobbed into his chest. Johnny had held him, layered him with the last kisses he’d receive from his best friend, his first love.

The rest of the summer had been miserable, then Taeyong traded snow for sand, and over time, it got easier not to look back.

It’s not easy now when Johnny stands grown before him. He carries the past in the timbre of his laughter, the curve of his shoulders, and the length of his stride. He carries something new too, a past unknown to Taeyong and a present that feels both familiar and foreign.

Taeyong shoves a box of inflatable gifts onto the cart. He takes a deep breath, trying to fill the sudden hollow space in his chest. “How are you? I mean...how have you been?”

“I’m okay,” Johnny says. He slides a large cutout of elves that looks as if it’s from the early 90s. “I ended up going to university in Daejeon, you know?”

“Oh, um, yeah. I think I saw a few posts on your Instagram.”

“Yeah, not as impressive as Busan National, but I did it,” Johnny says, “and I’m doing well enough now.”

“I—,” Taeyong stops himself, a frown taking over his face. “Daejeon is good.” He says instead, fingers fumbling with a box of weathered baubles. “You’re doing photography, now, right?” Taeyong had seen in brief flashes Johnny’s photos: beautiful street scenes, moods captured in the varying lights of day, portraits seemingly raw and untouched.

“Yep,” Johnny says and he pops the ‘p’. For the first time in their entire conversation he smiles, truly smiles to bring out his little cheek whiskers. “I love it. It just started off as a hobby during uni, you know, but then it grew, and now I get to travel the world doing what I love.”

“That’s amazing,” Taeyong breathes, eyes still glued to the wide smile adorning plush, pink lips. “I’m—I’m proud of you and happy for you. You deserve that, you know?”

“To take photos?”

“No.” Taeyong laughs and finally walks over to set the box on the cart. He turns towards Johnny and looks up into amber eyes. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Thanks, Yong.” Johnny’s smile softens, and Taeyong’s breath hitches at the old nickname. He hasn’t heard it in eight years, and the weight it carries surprises him, leaves his chest feeling syrupy thick. “What about you, Mr. Hot-Shot? You’re a lawyer now, right? Defending the innocent and all that.”

Taeyong snorts and looks down at their feet. “I just became an associate lawyer, and I do business law. There’s—there’s really nothing glamorous about it.”

“But you like it, right?” Johnny shifts closer, his booted feet and mile-long legs coming fully into Taeyong’s range of sight.

“Yeah.”

Johnny’s hand slides into view on the cart, coming to rest a finger’s-width away from Taeyong’s own. “You’re happy?”

Taeyong bites his lip. He’s content. He labored through university and his internship, broke his back on the stepping ladder of his law firm, and finally has a title worth coming home with to his name. “I’m okay. I’m doing what I want to, and I’m content with where I am.”

“But are you happy?” Johnny is closer now. Taeyong can feel the heat of his body, smell the musk of his cologne. Johnny’s hand is on his jaw, tilting his face up, and Taeyong can’t school his face fast enough. His vulnerability is bare in wide eyes and a pinched mouth—a hungry, dissatisfaction dark in his eyes. “It’s okay,” Johnny says, voice like dark molasses. “It’s okay to say that you want more.”

Taeyong’s breath shudders out of him, expression cracking like ice, spider-web thin lines rippling through his composure.  _ How _ , Taeyong thinks,  _ how after all this time does Johnny still know what he thinks and what he feels? _ He wants to ask Johnny, needs to know how he can keep his composure, how everything is so effortless, how he can touch Taeyong and not burn while Taeyong cracks, crumbles into shards and ash. Instead, he says, “I want more.”

They are chest to chest now, and Taeyong can feel ridges of muscle Johnny didn’t have when they were eighteen. “What do you want?”

“I—I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” The answer is both a truth and a lie. Taeyong hasn’t thought about what he’s lacking, about the parts of his life remaining unfulfilled. He hasn’t actively thought about the piece he’s missing for three years when he swore off dating. Back then, he had told his friends it was so he could focus on work—not a lie, but once again, not the complete truth. The truth, Taeyong has learned, is sometimes too bitter to swallow. The bitterness of knowing however pleasant his past relationships had been, they were just never enough. “I don’t really like thinking about what I can’t have.”

Johnny’s thumb traces a smooth path along his jaw, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. “Who says you can’t have these things?”

“Circumstances.”

“Circumstances change, you know,” Johnny says. Taeyong feels his inhale, Johnny’s chest rising and pushing against his own, his exhale minty and hot against Taeyong’s lips. “Sometimes you need time.”

“Time fixes all?” Taeyong says, words a bit too acerbic for their proximity.

Johnny just smirks and rolls his eyes playfully. “Not time alone, and not everything, but you’d be surprised the things that time can give you that you had once written off for yourself.”

“You say my laugh hasn’t changed,” Taeyong says. Johnny hums a deep rumble in the nonexistent space between them. They’ve been pressed together for far too long, but Taeyong refuses to be the first to pull away. He doesn’t want to be the one to pull away. “You want to know what hasn’t changed about you?”

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and leans in further. “What’s that?”

“You always know what to say. I don’t know how you do it, I never knew how you did it, but you always know the right thing to say, even when—” Taeyong stops. The words ‘ _ we broke up _ ’ sit fragile on his tongue like the first ice on a tumultuous river.

“You give me too much credit.”

“I don’t.”

“Agree to disagree then. You know,” Johnny’s hand moves to cradle his face, his other arm wrapping around Taeyong’s waist, movements slow, so slow to give time for Taeyong to stop them. Taeyong doesn’t. “There is a time when I wish I would have said something different.”

“Johnny,” Taeyong says his name like a dying gasp.

“Kids!” They jerk apart as Mr. Jeon’s voice echoes throughout the basement. “Ah, there you two are! Got the carts all loaded up too.” Mr. Jeon invades their corner, balding head shining under buttery fluorescent lights. “Taeyong, I think your mom needs you to go help set up her booth. Johnny and I can take care of the carts.”

“Right,” Taeyong croaks. He leaves, body stiff and not from the cold, and he doesn’t look back.

* * *

The town square is awash with golden light. Soft snow reflecting the dazzling display from shopfronts to the twelve-foot tall fir tree standing pride in the center. The air is crisp and clean, and underneath it scents of sweets and coffee reach out far.

Taeyong sits on a stone bench under the snow-packed bows of a pecan tree. He’s far enough away that no one bothers him, but he can still hear the laughter of the townsfolk and see the vague movement of the numerous display entertain the new generation of children.

A cup of his mom’s cinnamon hot chocolate sits empty at his side, the plastic lid now cold. He’s wearing a winter jacket, an early gift his dad bought him upon his return him. Even through the thick padding, he can feel the rising wind, the promise of another snowfall sitting static in the air.

“Can I sit?” Johnny stands before him, backlight by twinkling Christmas lights.

Taeyong nods and moves his cup out of the way. Johnny sits, and they’re silent for a few minutes. The silence is nice. Taeyong doesn’t think, his muscles don’t tense, he just sits, too tired and too cold to react.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says.

“For what?”

“A lot of things to be honest,” Johnny laughs, hoarse and splintered through with something decidedly unmerry. “I’m kind of selfish, you know?”

Taeyong doesn’t respond, but he does move, opening his body a bit more to Johnny.

Johnny takes the invitation for what it is. “After we broke up, I always thought about what I’d say to you when I saw you again. At first, it was just encouragements, things that didn’t really mean anything but I thought I should say since you were off doing your own thing.” He stops. His lips are bitten raw, and Johnny bites them again, sucking on his chapped lower lip before releasing it to be ravaged by the cold. “And then time passed, more than I expected. I didn’t know what I wanted to say for a while. I grew up a bit, got my shit together. Maybe I would tell you about that, about how well I’m doing. But you don’t need to hear that do you?” Johnny looks at him and his amber eyes are on fire, irises swallowing iridescent gold.

“No,” Taeyong says, and he smiles wryly. “I like hearing it, but you’ve always encouraged me, and regardless of your own doubts, I always knew you would become something wonderful—you’d find your passion. It was just—” Taeyong pauses, mind flashing back to their conversation mere hours ago.

“A matter of time?” Johnny finishes.

“Yeah. It was just a matter of time.” Taeyong turns fully to face Johnny. He takes a deep breath, icy air filling his lungs, and reaches out to grab Johnny’s gloved hands. “And what do you think I want to hear from you?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny laughs wetly. “I’m still selfish, Yong. I’m still thinking of the things I want to tell you. But, I want to make sure they mean something, and...and I want to know what you want to say, rather than me just saying what I think we both want to hear.”

“I miss you,” Taeyong says, short and simple. “The first few years, I missed you so much I felt like a limb had been severed. I don’t—I don’t hate you, Johnny. I get why we broke up, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. You were my everything, you know?”   


“I know,” Johnny smiles, a tight stretch of lips. “You were my everything, too.”

“You wanted to know what I was missing?” Taeyong scoots closer, heedless to the cold and the first flurries of snowflakes falling between naked branches. “I have wonderful new friends in Busan, but none of them will ever know the depth of who I was before Busan. I’ve dated, not recently and not frequently, but I’ve dated some really nice guys.” Taeyong pauses to breathe, and he wonders if the hurt on Johnny’s face is mirrored in his own. “But it’s so funny how none of them clicked. There were sparks but no fire. I want fire, Johnny. I want something as ageless as flame, as comforting as heat, and as consuming as a spark given oxygen.”

Silence is a third person on the bench with them. Taeyong clutches Johnny’s fingers, feels them twitch with life against his palm. Johnny doesn’t meet his eyes, hides his gaze behind furrowed brows and long eyelashes.

“I wanted to be your fire back then.”

“You were.”

“I didn’t feel like it. But,” Johnny breathes, deep enough that Taeyong can track the inflation of his chest beneath his coat. “But, I’d like to try again. I don’t think I can be your fire, not right away, but I want to try.”

Taeyong smiles, resplendent beneath the snow and lights. He falls into Johnny, gloved hands swiping tiny snowflakes from where they collect on Johnny’s eyelashes. “That’s okay. You can be a spark, and I’ll be your oxygen, and this time, we’ll grow together.”

“Fuck,” Johnny sighs, and there is no hesitation when he pulls Taeyong further into him.

Their lips meet as the snow falls thicker. Johnny’s lips are cold and chapped against Taeyong’s own, but at this moment, they are the best thing Taeyong has felt in a love time. Their lips move, slow and sweet in their reacquaintance. When Johnny’s seeks entrance into his mouth, Taeyong grants it with a laugh.

Gilded in gold and cold, they seal a promise in the warmth of their mouths and the yearning of their hearts, a promise to see their spark through until they have a fire.


End file.
